


Ghostbuster-Fucker

by orphan_account



Category: RedLetterMedia RPF
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dates, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Ghosts, Kitchen Sex, Oral Sex, Post-Coital Cuddling, Reader-Insert, Restaurants, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, come get y'all juice, maybe? - Freeform, porn titles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22625302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Really, you shouldn’t be held accountable for your actions. At that point in the night, you were the only waitress on the floor, as well as on the tail-end of an eight-hour shift, and this booth of backwards-hat-wearing, cargo shorts assholes had tempted you to upend a pot of scalding coffee into their laps more than a few times in the past hour-and-a-half they’d been there.
Relationships: Mike Stoklasa/Reader
Comments: 39
Kudos: 75





	1. one

Really, you shouldn’t be held accountable for your actions. At that point in the night, you were the only waitress on the floor, as well as on the tail-end of an eight-hour shift, and this booth of backwards-hat-wearing, cargo shorts assholes had tempted you to upend a pot of scalding coffee into their laps more than a few times in the past hour-and-a-half they’d been there.

Honestly, they weren’t being rude to _you_ per se. They were relatively polite to you (aside from when the darkest-haired one had asked if you, being “a red-hot-blooded american woman,” thought the Ghostbusters costumes lacked “ghastly sex appeal”), bringing their volume to acceptable levels when they addressed you and stacking plates to hand to you so you didn’t have to single-handedly try to balance them. Their obnoxious behavior occurred when you _left_ their table. Their boisterous talking and bickering, as well as their borderline-insulting subject matter had the few other patrons of the diner sliding their eyes to them in annoyance every time one of the Assholes’ voices would raise (which was frequent).

Thankfully, you weren’t able to make out all of their dialogue from the kitchen—though you sure heard their racket. The patrons weren’t so fortunate. While refilling a drink at one of your few other tables, you could distinctly hear the sardonic voice of Ghostbuster-Fucker laden with faux-concern asking, “Are those generations of inbreeding finally getting to your brain, Rich?” Hardly containing a snort, you saw the overworked-looking Walmart employee in front of you sigh and turn her gaze upward, as though looking for strength. That reaction seemed to be the most common towards the raucous booth in the corner-most booth of the restaurant. Seeing as no one had verbally complained, there wasn’t really anything you could do.

Their antics would have amused you had it been another time or another night, but your head was throbbing with exhaustion, and you were starting to worry that the Assholes were gonna stay past the end of your shift, meaning you wouldn’t even get a _tip_ for the almost two hours you’d been taking care of them. To say that you were slightly annoyed would have been an understatement.

The next time you visited their table, it was with the purpose of refilling the Diet Coke belonging to the most tired-looking of the three. As you approached, you heard Ghostbuster-Fucker yelp out something about cameras and a problem with someone’s uterus. Before you could stop yourself, while you grabbed the tired guy’s empty glass, your mouth opened and you said, “Fellas, would you mind hashing out the details of the gay porn you’re shooting a little quieter?”

 _Fucking idiot,_ you thought as your hand clenched around the glass of drink you were refilling, _now you really aren’t gonna get a tip._ It was quiet for a second at the booth, before the tired guy let out an absurd, high pitched laugh. You’d heard that laugh while you were traversing the restaurant, but you’d assumed it was coming from the tiny guy with the bunny teeth on the other side of the booth. Tired Guy’s laughter almost had you cracking a smile before you remembered that you’d wasted the opportunity to make any fucking money.

Then, before you could churn out an apology, Ghostbuster-Fucker grinned in an almost charming way before promptly ruining it with the statement, “Unfortunately, we’re still hashing out important details of it. The talent over there,” he gestured towards Tiny Guy, whose eyes widened, “wants to go with a war theme, and the title _A Few Good Men (In My Ass),_ which is a bar we're setting too high for ourselves.” Tired Guy, whose laughter had stopped, groaned at the awful joke before breaking into a fresh batch of giggles.

You managed to keep a straight face, the panic of not getting a tip easing a little, before you nodded and soberly responded, “I’d go for a psychological thriller porn. Call it _Twin Pinks._ ” At that, the whole table cracked up, the Tiny Guy covering his mouth while his shoulders shook, and you even let out a snort, the worry from earlier disappearing entirely. Your eyes slid back to Ghostbuster-Fucker, who was pressing his lips together to stifle his laughter, making the corners of his mouth turn down. _Oh no,_ you thought, _he’s cute._

When you caught yourself staring at him, you realized that he was no longer laughing, and had _also_ caught you staring. Now he was gazing at you contemplatively, and you felt your cheeks turn pink. You quickly turned away, still hearing the other two’s laughter while you scurried to another of your tables before heading to the kitchen with their order. 

You stood in the kitchen while the order was prepared, not wanting to go back out until the color had left your cheeks. How on _Earth_ could you be caught eyeing someone who you referred to as _Ghostbuster-Fucker _in your head? _I blame temporary insanity by means of exhaustion._ When the order was completed, you huffed out a breath before grabbing it and returning to the other table. After making sure everything was okay with them, you headed back to the booth. __

__You noticed the silence before you actually could see the booth, which was empty when you arrived. You told yourself you were relieved, but you were obviously full of shit, as disappointment was the emotion which was truly present. All of the cups and plates had been stacked, and each check you’d distributed over an hour ago was laid out with cash on or beside it (with, you were happy to note, a healthy tip). You grabbed the checks, but when you lifted the one where Ghostbuster-Fucker had sat, you noticed a folded napkin placed under it. You opened it, feeling your stupid face heat _again_ when you saw what was written on it: _Mike_ , followed by a phone number. Your head swirled around, as though expecting him to pop out and yell “Gotcha!” but he and the other Assholes had, of course, already left. You looked back at the napkin._ _

__Mike is a _way_ more respectable name than Ghostbuster-Fucker. You pocketed the napkin, and started cleaning the table._ _


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So maybe you were avoiding calling the guy.

So, _maybe_ you put off calling the guy. 

_Maybe_ every time you saw the napkin you left on your night stand, you blushed, rolled your eyes at yourself for blushing, and put it off until later.

And just _maybe,_ now that you actually _were_ calling him, it was a semi-accident.

Earlier that day, you had been laying on your floor, with your feet elevated against the wall to recover after another far-too-long shift. You honestly weren’t even thinking about Mike (it was still weird using his actual name in your head) when your roommate walked in, asking for a hair-tie. You pointed her towards your night stand, and closed your eyes, relaxing into the weird position you were in. She thanked you, and walked over.

Your eyes were startled back open when she let out a scandalized gasp. “Are you choking?” you asked, turning your head in her direction.

“I must have choked and passed out, because either I’m _hallucinating,_ ” she quickly turned to you, the napkin in her hand, “or you have the number of a _male suitor_ on your table!”

Eyes widening, you rolled off of the wall, wobbling a bit when you stood. “Male suitor? Jesus, Mayor of Casterbridge, no. Give me that.” You outstretched your hand.

Your roommate had a nearly evil smile on her face, and she held the napkin over her head. “I shan’t! Not until you tell me about this,” her eyes darted to the napkin and back, “ _Mike_.”

You groaned, and crossed your arms over your chest. “He’s some guy that gave me his number at work. No big deal,” you mumbled.

“No big deal? I thought you’d taken a fuckin’ vow of chastity.” Her arm came down, and she leaned against your night stand. “Have you called him?”

“No.” You sighed. “I don’t know if I want to. He seems kinda out there.”

She snorted. “Birds of a feather flock together,” she responded in a sing-song voice.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.” Kicking your toe against the ground, you sighed again. “I don’t know. I’m so awkward. And he seems like someone who can’t be bothered by what others think of him. It’s kinda intimidating.” You moved your arms from their place across your chest and covered your face with your hands. “Plus, it’s already been, like, four days, and he probably forgot about me already.”

Your roommate made a considering noise, then was quiet for a moment. Then, she said, “Well. No time like the present to find out.”

You lifted your head from your hands and saw that she had taken your phone off of the horr. Then, you realized that it _was ringing,_ and that she had fucking _called him_. “What the _fuck,_ dude,” you said, storming over to grab the phone from her hands and hang up. But then, you heard someone pick up the phone, and a male voice answered.

You locked eyes with your roommate. She grabbed the hair tie, slapped your ass, and scurried from the room, cackling at your indignant squawk. You heard the voice from the phone again. After quickly considering hanging up, you shoved the phone to your ear. “Hi,” you said, voice pitched horribly high. You cleared your voice and tried again, “Hi.”

“Hi. Who’s this?” It was that same voice you recognized, and your cheeks lit up, like some sort of fucking Pavlovian response.

You realized, again, that he’d probably already forgotten you. “Ah, shit, sorry,” you started. “You probably forgot, cause I took so long. To call you. Because I took so long calling you,” Jesus _Christ_ put you out of your misery. “Sorry,” you said again, about to hang up.

“Wait,” you heard as you pulled the phone from your ear. “Is this the waitress?” Mike asked, and you cringed, returning the phone to your ear.

“Yeah,” you said, and told him your name. “I’m sorry I took so long to call. And then had a verbal seizure when I finally did.”

You could hear his smile as he responded, “Hey, no problem. I’m just glad I have a name, now. I’ve just been calling you The Waitress in my head.”

He’d been thinking about you? You smiled when you responded, “Yeah, I’d been thinking of you as Ghostbuster-Fucker before you wrote down your name.”

Finally, you felt yourself relax as he laughed. “Not as creative as some of the other porn titles, but we can work with it, I’m sure.” There was a slightly awkward pause, then he resumed speaking: “So, I guess I can skip the part where I ask what a girl like you is doing in a place like this.”

“Well, it is kinda cramped in this phone.” _God, that was a stupid joke,_ you thought. “God, that was a stupid joke,” you said.

“Yeah, but the best ones are.” You smiled again, if you’d even stopped. “Anyway, in an effort to get to the fucking point, I’ll ask: would you like to go out?”

“Yes,” you responded too quickly. “I mean: perhaps, I guess so, why not.”

Thankfully, he seemed endeared by your floundering. “Great. Actually, I’m sorta occupied for the rest of this week,” he said, sounding like he shared your mild disappointment. “But, by next week, I should be pretty open. Would Friday be okay?”

“Actually, I have class on Friday nights. Could you swing a Thursday?”

He made a thoughtful hum, then an excited exclamation, then responded, “Thursday definitely works. I must ask, though: are you prepared to peak behind the curtain of this _realm_ of _reality?_ ” His voice had taken on this ridiculous Haunted-House-Tour-Guide vibe, and you were kinda loving it.

You made a teeth-sucking noise of reluctance. “I gotta say, ritually sacrificing me is something I usually save for the third date. That being said, I’m willing to participate in whatever other occult phenomena you have in mind.”

“Fuck yeah, mate,” he said, in the literal worst cockney accent you’d ever heard, and you stifled a laugh as he continued. “I can pick you up, if you want?” You agreed, and after hashing out the details, you hung up, nearly vibrating with excitement.

A squeal interrupted your thoughts, and you wheeled around to find your roommate holding the other house phone to her ear. She exclaimed “Bitch!” in excitement, and you forgot your irritation at her eavesdropping, and just let yourself be excited for next Thursday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was Thursday. _The_ Thursday, the one which marked your date with Mike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was fearful of writing the whole date in one sitting, sorry ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> also, sorry for giving "you" a very niche interest in linguistics, it is a concept which I couldn't escape

You were sitting in the ( _tastefully tacky_ , you always reminded your roommate) armchair diagonal from your front door. A chair which, it should be noted, you had _never_ sat in before, due to its weird placement. Nevertheless, you sat in it, and as you sat, your leg bounced out of any discernible rhythm (though, it was possible that you were subconsciously spelling out _“God put me out of my misery”_ in Morse code). 

It was Thursday. _The_ Thursday, the one which marked your date with Mike. It was approaching seven o’clock, the time that you and Mike had agreed upon in a second phone call earlier this week. By “approaching seven o’clock,” you meant to say “an entire half-hour before seven o’clock.” Honestly, you’d planned your day so that you wouldn’t be doing exactly this: waiting, and psyching yourself out. You’d had an absurdly early shift at work this morning, after which you’d gone to class, then returned home to tackle the chores which you’d let pile up _for this very occasion._ Of course, for the first time in your miserable life, you’d finished everything in a timely manner, leaving you to do nothing but sit and stew.

You found yourself wishing your roommate was home, even though she’d annoyed the absolute shit out of you when you were trying to decide what to wear the night before. ( _Just go naked,_ she’d uselessly, and repeatedly, shouted every time you tried on another outfit. _It’s called non-subliminal messaging._ ) At least she would keep you occupied with her obtrusive and obnoxious, though entertaining, dialogue. It would be better than sitting here like a Civil War widow, imagining all the ways in which the date could go wrong.

Grabbing the pillow from under you, you buried your face in it and proceeded to scream into it, ignoring how warm it was from your butt. After screaming, you just sorta held it there for a minute, hoping that some mild suffocation would let you chill out. 

That, of course, is when there was a knock on the front door. This time, your shriek into the pillow was _entirely_ involuntary.

You dropped the pillow, and stood up, putting yourself directly in front of the door. You reached for the doorknob, realized that it would be clear that you were _waiting_ by the door, like a fucking _lapdog,_ and dropped your hand. You turned to the mirror directly in front of the door to make sure that it wasn't totally obvious that you’d been non-erotically auto-asphyxiating, and after deeming yourself damn-near passable as a functioning human, you turned to the door again, finally opening it. Your eyes shot wide upon seeing Mike.

His hair was fuckin’ _green._

And, oh god, you kinda _loved_ it. 

That was, actually, the only startlingly punk thing about him. No studded collar or Tripp pants. He was just wearing a t-shirt, and the distinction was almost enough to get you to giggle. Mike, in that moment, also seemed to realize that his hair was green, for you saw his eyes sail clean over your head (he really was very tall; you didn’t think you had seen him standing before), to the mirror behind you, and widen the slightest bit, before returning to you. 

Before he could say anything, you said “Howdy.” _You said fucking “Howdy.”_

Mike pressed his lips together and snorted. “Yeehaw.” Your cheeks flushed at that voice, so different in person. It actually sounded a little rougher than you remembered. “Sorry about the hair,” he said, turning and starting down your front steps, towards his car, “I was attacked by a madman, and he stuffed my head in a port-a-john while he ravaged me.”

Quickly locking the door behind yourself, you followed him down the stairs, and ran to the passengers’ side of the car. “That’s pretty classy, you should consider yourself lucky. Most of the madmen that ravage me do it in a bed: truly unoriginal.” You caught him smiling as you each sat yourselves in your seats.

“I’ll try to take notes,” he said, side-eyeing you, and you blushed.

With an awkward crack to your voice, you turned your gaze forward and asked him: “While I’m not sure I would actually be surprised by that, why do you actually have green hair? Swim in a pool that was too chlorinated?”

Once you’d put on your seatbelt, he cranked the car and pulled onto the road, heading towards town. He drove with his knees while he buckled his own seatbelt. “Actually, I was making a movie.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “No shit?”

“None in the slightest.” As he settled into his seat, you couldn’t help yourself from glancing at his comfortable sprawl; his elbow perched on the center console and his head cradled by the headrest. “It was kind of a piece of shit, but I’ve definitely made worse things.”

You hummed, and finally separated your eyes from him, turning to face the dashboard before he noticed your staring. The sun was setting. “Well, as long as I’m invited to the Sundance premiere, I will happily watch it to truly judge its potential shittiness.”

Out of your periphery, you saw a half-smile that made you feel giddy. “It would’ve turned out better if we hadn’t all come down with a nasty case of super-tuberculosis on, like, the second day of filming.” So that explained his extra-scratchy voice.

In a playfully condescending tone, you asked, “Did one of you start eating live rats during production?”

“Tragically, I can’t count out that possibility. Rich Evans has eaten worse, but it’s usually as my command.”

You nodded contemplatively. “Sounds pretty gay.”

Mike did that tight-lipped smile again. “Sounding gay comes hand-in-hand with Rich Evans.” After a moment, he clarified, “Rich Evans was at the diner with me.”

Your brow wrinkled as you thought. “Was he the tiny one, or the really tired-looking one?” While, at first, it had seemed like you were going towards downtown, it now looked like he was going to the older part of the city. 

“Tired one, definitely. The tiny one is Jay.” He lifted his land from the center console to the steering-wheel when a car in front of his swerved into your lane. The car jerked, and you grabbed onto each of your seats to stabilize yourself. Mike honked, and barked out the cracked window, “I hope your brother chokes to death on your wife’s dick, you fat _fuck._ ”

Regardless of your accelerated pulse at the hands of the the “fat fuck’s” dogshit driving, you started giggling uncontrollably at Mike’s colorful outburst. Mike seemed to remember you were in the car, and his snarling expression faded quickly. After a moment of you trying to stifle your giggling, he was smiling easily again. Once your giggles stopped, the car lapsed into silence.

It was a little awkward, but it had potential, you thought, not fighting the smile that remained on your face. 

Mike cleared his throat, which was more awkward than the silence, and you almost laughed, before he said. “So, you’re in school?” You nodded when he looked your way, and his eyes dropped to your still-stupidly-smiling mouth. “What are you studying?”

Your head dropped back onto the headrest. In your best frat-boy voice, you asked “So, like, what’s your _major_?”

Rolling his eyes, Mike responded, “Oh, suck my dick.”

Before he could backtrack (and before you could start imagining _that_ ), you answered, “I’m studying linguistics.”

He shut up, asking “Just generally, or is there a specific thing you’re focusing on?” Honestly, you weren’t prepared for that. People generally just asked _What are you gonna do with_ that _?_ in a condescending manner. 

Trust a filmmaker to not ask a douchey question about a liberal arts degree.

“Well,” you started, “there isn’t actually a degree for what I specifically want to get into. Most of it gets done in, like, internet forums.”

Mike nodded. “I know what that’s like.”

You smiled, relaxing into your seat again. The sun had almost fully set, you noticed. “It’s constructing languages? Like, the non-natural ones like Esperanto, or ones that you find in books or TV.”

Mike’s eyebrows shot up. “Like Klingon?” 

“Yeah! I actually just started watching Star Trek for it,” you said, before realizing how lame _that_ confession was.

Then again, you should’ve remembered what company you were in.

“Original series?” He sounded like he was brimming with excitement.

Your teeth had stuck themselves in your lip, and around them you said, “The Next Generation.”

Mike smiled with his teeth this time, which were surprisingly small, and _so fucking cute_. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. ‘A Matter of Honor’ is an episode with a shit-ton of Klingon in it. I think that’s season two? Maybe three?”

Your teeth were now assigned with the job of preventing your mouth from smiling so wide that it split your head in half. There was hardly anything you enjoyed more than seeing people super excited about something they loved. Still, you had to release your lips to respond with “Damn, you can’t even remember that it’s in season two? Could you just drop me off here? I’ll hitch a ride home.”

Mike chuckled darkly. “Kid, you’ve got slim-to-no chances of escaping me now.” You fought a blush, yet again failing. “Also, we’re already here, so you might as well go through with it now.”

Seriously? Your eyes finally took in your surroundings, realizing that you were outside of one of the oldest churches in the area. The sky had fully darkened, and since you weren’t near the pure light pollution of downtown, you were able to see a few stars. Just beyond a gate was a truly ominous graveyard. “God damn,” you said. “He really is gonna sacrifice me.”

The “he” in question snorted at you, and the overhead light of the car clicked on as he opened the door to get out. “I think you have to be a virgin for that.”

You scoffed in indignance, following him from the car. “I was informed that anal doesn’t count.” As you strode past him towards the graveyard, you noticed the slighted flush on _his_ cheeks this time, and you smirked.

After a moment, he called out, “You’re going the wrong way, jackass.”

Trying not to let that dampen your previous confidence, you steered back around towards him, realizing that there was a small crowd toward the entrance of the church.

“What, exactly, are we doing here?” You asked Mike while you slowly approached him.

His smile showed his teeth again, before he carefully covered them with his lips, starting towards the crowd. Instead of answering your question, he pointed towards a van parked out of the way. A van which read “Other Circle Ghost Tours.”

Mike was taking you on a fucking _ghost tour_?


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A ghost tour, huh?" you asked Mike quietly, nudging his shoulder with your own. You realized it was the first time you'd touched him.
> 
> He looked down at you, and gave you a playful smile. "A guilty pleasure of mine. Why? You scared, punk?"

Mike's long legs were quickly covering the distance between his car and the entrance of the church, and you scrambled to catch up. You zipped your jacket and crossed your arms over your chest to block out the chill. It was as if finding out about the ghost tour made you realize how nippy the air was at this time of night. 

You caught up with him just as he reached the edge of the group. His hands were in his pockets and he took a casual stance, but you could tell he was trying to temper his excitement. The group itself was about twelve people; you weren’t sure if this was the standard size, seeing as you’d never been on a ghost tour before. Mike and you were in the back of the group, apparently having shown up last. There was conversation around you, but it was muffled.

"A ghost tour, huh?" you asked Mike quietly, nudging his shoulder with your own. You realized it was the first time you'd touched him.

He looked down at you, and gave you a playful smile. "A guilty pleasure of mine. Why? You scared, punk?"

"Honestly? A little," you responded, casting your eyes towards your feet, which were shuffling back and forth awkwardly. You saw Mike’s feet turn a little more towards you. "Not, like. It's not like I'm afraid of ghosts, or really believe in them, actually. I am, on the other hand, quite susceptible to dark locations and tension building." 

You looked up when you had ceased your babbling, and saw that Mike's smile had become a little more natural. "Don't worry," he said, nudging his shoulder back into yours ( _second time_ ). "If a spooky specter attacks us, I'll be sure to push you directly into it so I can escape."

That got a snort from you, but before you could respond, a chubby woman in a black windbreaker called for everyone's attention. "Good evening, everyone!" She had the voice of a Sunday school teacher, and you immediately felt more at ease. "My name’s Diane, and tonight, it's my pleasure to lead you on a tour of Our Lady of the Light, one of the oldest churches in the area..."

You tuned her out a bit, looking toward Mike. He seemed genuinely interested, which actually surprised you. A smile broke onto your face at his enthusiasm. His eyes turned to you, and his eyebrows rose. To ease your embarrassment at being caught staring, you made the sign of the cross over yourself and pantomimed prayer, which had mike smiling, rolling his eyes, as turning back towards the tiny tour guide.

After introductions, Diane turned to the door and led the way inside. The entrance hall was being illuminated with a flashlight, you thought, but it turned out to be an old-timey lantern. Mike seemed to catch it at the same time as you, cause he let out a quiet huff of laughter. The crowd gathered around the tour guide in the room before the chapel, and Diane began speaking of the founding and origins of the church. Your eyes scanned the room.

The ceilings weren't necessarily high, but you knew that the chapel proper would be far more intimidating. There were paintings of past Fathers, but due to the scant light, you could only see the bottom of the portraits, making the Fathers appear to be headless. There was a modest chandelier overhead, and you noticed that it was rocking, slightly, back and forth. Most definitely because of the large group that just traipsed into the wooden-floor room, but, you never missed an opportunity to scare yourself. You shivered, then scooted the slightest bit closer to Mike. He reciprocated, and then your arms were pressed to each other’s.

_Jesus, I'm acting like a Victorian teenager._

The guide finished with her story of the room, then went to open the chapel. "Watch your step!" she called ahead of us. “Some of the spirits in here have been known to trip people!”

You were kind of tempted to crack a joke about that, but you weren’t sure just how seriously Mike took these tours. You needn’t have worried, though, because Mike himself leaned in with a hand on the small of your back _(!!!!!!)_ and whispered, “If I trip you and make you bust your ass, would you let me claim it was done by the spirit of Grandma Josephine?” You giggled, and a woman appearing to be in her mid-fifties in front of you turned around to scowl at you. Blushing, you looked away, only to see Mike shaking his head at you and doing the “shame-on-you” finger scrape. This time, you bit your tongue to stop from laughing again.

By now, the whole group had migrated into the chapel. The light being cast through the stained-glass windows from the street lamps outside looked pretty cool, if a little eerie. Diane spoke: “This chapel has been known to be the location of three distinct spirits. First, the spirit of Father John McKeeble, who died in nineteen-twenty-one, and had a heart attack in the middle of a sermon! Allegedly, he was speaking as he normally would, then he became quiet for a moment, said ‘The Kingdom of Heaven is close at hand,’ and fell to the ground, dead.” The group mumbled, and a few people let out quiet chuckles. The Scowling Woman nodded her head, as if she knew this. “Father McKeeble was known for his passionate sermons, and he can sometimes be heard hitting his hands against the podium.” She paused to listen, but there was no sound.

“The second,” Diane said as she walked forward to one of the pews near the middle of the chapel, “is the spirit of Josie Ackard.” Mike’s head swiveled dramatically toward you, eyes wide, and mouthed _Grandma Josephine?_ You had to cover your mouth with your sleeve to hold in your laughter, and Mike covered his own mouth. You were thankful that this tour was illuminated poorly, so no one could see the two assholes in the back, shaking with laughter at a dead woman. Diane continued, “She died of old age at the beginning of the service, in this very pew, and no one noticed she was dead until everyone else got up to leave. People sitting in this pew frequently report a cold spot here,” she pointed towards the center of the pew, “where Josie was said to have been sitting. Would anyone like to see if they can feel it?”

A few people moved to the pew: a woman and her son, who stood there for a moment before moving back, the Scowling Woman, who moved there, then covered her mouth and nodded solemnly, but said nothing (cue eye-roll), and an older man, who shrugged and returned.

Diane nodded when everyone was done, and she led the way to the pulpit, and stood by the organ, which was before the choir seating. “The third spirit is only known as the Chorister. No one is _truly_ sure who the Chorister might be, but it is agreed-upon that he is a spirit from before the church was renovated at the beginning of the twentieth century.”

Diane’s voice had taken on a more sober tone. Mike noticed this, and leaned to whisper in your ear, “This is gonna be the _’sinister’_ one. Bet you twenty.” You nodded absently, registering what he said, but were more focused on his lips brushing your ear, and the shiver it caused.

Gesturing toward the choir section with her hand not holding the lantern, Diane continued. “The Chorister is called so because his presence is only sensed in the choir section. He, unlike the other spirits, is considered more sinister.” Mike turned towards you with raised eyebrows, and rubbed his fingers together to symbolize “money.” You stuck your tongue out at him, and his hand shot out to grab it, but you snapped your teeth at his fingers, hardly containing another laugh when he yanked his hand back.

(Something about being in a haunted church surrounded by alleged ghosts and believers made it _so hard_ not to constantly laugh your ass off. Mike shared the sentiment, it appeared, for he was pinching his lips together to contain his own giggles.)

“The Chorister is known to physically harm female members of the choir during both rehearsal and service. Woman have reported being shoved, scratched, and even _bitten._ ” Members of the group mumbled, and a few let out low whistles. Scowling Woman shook her head sadly. Mike winked at you. “He is not believed to be a demon, but there were rumors of a Father in the late eighteen-hundreds who had a truly sordid secret life concealed behind his preaching. Some think _him_ to be the Chorister, due to allegations that he assaulted a few members of the choir while he was Father here. Unfortunately, these allegations were never proven.”

The Scowling Woman put her hand to her forehead, as if she were growing faint. Mike threw a subtle “get-a-load-of-this-guy” thumb in her direction. Your eyebrows wrinkled in mild confusion. He leaned in again, and you bit your lip at the feeling of his breath on your ear.

“There’s always some fucker,” Mike said, full of exasperation, “who acts like the ghosts are personally targeting them. Makes them feel special, makes everyone else super annoyed.” He shrugged. “Comes with the territory.”

The group started moving from the choir section, and you grabbed his shirt before leaning into his space. “Are you feeling faint?” you whispered back to him, jokingly.

Mike leaned back to look at you for a moment, with that little half-smile, before returning to your ear. “I’m feelin’ something,” he answered in a deeper tone than you were used to hearing from him, and you shivered, clenching your hand in his shirt before dropping it (which he most certainly felt). He chuckled lowly, then put his hand on the small of your back again to lead you after the group, which was headed back towards the church offices.

After you rejoined the group, however, you found yourself unable to focus on anything Diane was saying, because _Mike never removed his fucking hand._ He did move it: it wasn’t on the small of your back anymore, but rather than leaving, it had slid around to your hip opposite from him. _Those stupid fucking long arms,_ you felt yourself curing as Diane droned on and on about how the renovation of the church a hundred years ago supposedly “disturbed the spirits.” You really did feel like a Victorian girl, unable to focus just because a man was touching you.

You would say the touching was innocent, but this was Mike you were talking about. You weren’t really sure he had an innocent bone in his body.

You got your focus back once Diane announced that the group was heading into the graveyard. The group followed her out the back door of the church, into a graveyard which was about the size of a quarter of a city block. Some of the headstones had elaborate murals, and some, you saw, were hardly more than a smooth rock with someone’s name chiselled in them. Diane led the group first to a small mausoleum.

“This mausoleum houses the Schaffer family, the family which founded this church. The patriarch of the family was the first Father, and two generations of his progeny after him followed in this tradition...”

You were trying to listen, you _really were,_ but then Mike—who you had officially deemed an actual torturer—put his mouth by your ear and asked, “You ever fucked in a mausoleum?”

You let out a quiet gasp. _Well, this amped up pretty fuckin’ fast._ When you turned to him, you saw he was silently laughing, showing off those cute little teeth again. _Oh, this bastard._ You turned back towards Diane, who was leading the group further into the cemetery, and you elbowed Mike in the stomach. He curled forward with it, still laughing, and you bent to whisper into his ear: “Not yet” before following the group.

When Mike caught up with you, Diane was explaining that the grave the group was currently facing was a hotspot for supernatural occurrences. Mike had his hands in his pockets, and, to reassure him that he didn’t scare you off, you wrapped your hand around his forearm. He turned to you with a smile, and squeezed your hand between his arm and his side, before returning his gaze to Diane.

“This grave, belonging to someone whose first name was Molly, but whose last name is unreadable, is buried directly beside a small grave bearing no name.” Diane gestures to the smaller grave with her lantern. “The smaller grave only has a year on it, implying that it belongs to Molly’s stillborn. Molly died only a year after the baby. Many say that they can hear her crying for her baby, and others claim that they can feel her grief. Can anyone here feel Molly?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Scowling Woman raised her hand. One person half-raised theirs, saw Scowling Woman, then dropped their hand again. “I can feel her,” Scowling Woman said, since raising her hand wasn’t clear enough. “I think I can almost hear her crying, too? Yes. I hear it.” She took a shuddering breath, and everyone looked away from her, uncomfortable. Mike looked at you, making a face like he was constipated, and you nodded, making a jerking-off motion with your unoccupied hand. Mike’s smile returned.

Diane, bless her, just nodded at Scowling Woman, and continued on to the other active graves. After the third grave, you saw Mike check his watch. Assuming this tour was an hour, it was probably just over half-way done.

“This is the last grave we’ll be visiting,” said Diane. “After that, we’ll head down to the basement of the church.” Mike let out a soft sigh. “This is the grave of Memphis, the old caretaker of the church during the period when it was closed in the fifties, and he remained caretaker after it reopened, until his death. Memphis was very protective of the church, to the point where people frequently claimed that he was exceptionally rude to them if they were ever caught scuffing the floor, picking at the plants, or smudging the windows.”

Mike shook his arm to get your attention, then jerked his head towards the gate to the graveyard, through which you could see his car in the parking lot. You raised your eyebrow in question.

Diane was still speaking. “Even in death, old Memphis will persist in his anger towards those he thinks are being disruptive to ‘his church.’” Scowling Woman let out a gasp. The group turned to her, and she had her hand on her chest. Mike muttered something that sounded like “for fuck’s sake.”

“I felt it! I felt Memphis pinch me!” The Scowling Woman announced, before turning to look at Memphis’ grave. “I promise you, spirit, I haven’t done anything to desecrate your church.” She paused, and you covered your mouth to stop yourself from laughing at Mike’s 100% accurate description of her behavior. She gasped again. _Does this bitch have asthma?_ “He poked me!”

Beside you, Mike gasped, _loudly_ and _overdramatically,_ finally making you audibly snort. His voice had jumped a complete octave when he shouted out: “That pervert old Memphis! He’s poking me, too! I can feel him tingling my prostate!” Some of the group gasped, some started laughing, and the mother covered her son’s ears, giggling herself. You wanted to know how the Scowling Woman responded, but Mike was pulling you away, towards the gate. You were laughing so hard that tears had started leaking from your eyes, and a few yards from Mike’s car, you had to put your hands on your knees to get yourself under control.

After a moment, you heard a door close, presumably Diane having herded the group into the basement. You finally stood, wiping tears from your cheeks. Mike was leaning again his car, with his stupid smirk, and his stupid green hair, and his stupid long legs crossed at the stupid ankles. “Oh my god,” you wheezed. “You fucking _dick_.” You marched up to him, grabbed the collar of his stupid t-shirt, and yanked him down so you could finally kiss his stupid mouth.

You had missed the mark a little, but it was quickly remedied when Mike immediately put one hand on that same hip, his other hand in your hair, and readjusted the kiss to your mouths fit together _perfectly_. To make up for the significant height difference, you pressed yourself completely against him and replaced one hand on the back of his neck. When your bodies made full contact, his mouth dropped open, and your tongue immediately reached for his.

That smirk was still shaping his mouth, but after a quick bite to his lip, he hummed and reformed his mouth to yours. You quickly learned that his tongue was good for something other than making snarky-ass comments, as it glanced off the back of your incisors before sliding along your own tongue. His hand tightened in your hair, and you groaned into his mouth. At the pause in your kissing, he pulled your hair _again_ , this time tilting your head back so he could sink those small, wicket teeth of his into the skin on your neck, causing your groan to morph into something higher, which you _refused_ to call a squeal, as well as causing you to reflexively roll your hips into his.

He breathed a low groan into your neck before sucking on the spot he’d left a mark. His hand in your hair quickly repositioned to your other hip, pulling them against his again. You realized that this was quickly heading towards you _actually_ fucking in a mausoleum, which you would rather save for the not-first time you fucked Mike ( _Oh my god, I’m gonna fuck Mike,_ you caught yourself realizing). To redirect the mood, you tugged on Mike’s hair and ground out: “Old Memphis ain’t gonna be the only one tingling your prostate tonight if you aren’t careful.”

It had the desired effect: Mike instantly stopped, giggling boisterously into the skin of your neck. You released your grip on his hair, just scratching your knuckled along his scalp gently. Then he blew a raspberry into your neck and you slapped him upside the head.

He removed himself from your neck, still laughing, and squeezed your hips one more time before removing his hands and placing them behind himself, on the hood of his car. You got your feet back under you, though they remained on either side of Mike’s, and you regretfully separated your hips, resisting the urge to look down.

You both smiled like idiots at each other for a minute. Then Mike said, “You still owe me twenty bucks for the ‘sinister’ thing,” and returned to his full height, almost towering over you.

You made a faux-contemplation noise. “I can just pay for the next date,” you said, trying not to sound obviously, embarrassingly, hopeful.

Instead of responding, Mike just smiled again before grabbing your chin and guiding you up to kiss him again.


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You had, in the past week since yours and Mike’s date, gone to pound town on yourself more than you had since you’d learned what a clitoris was for. 
> 
> I mean, you were only human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

A knock comes from your door while you’re four hours into a half-assed essay. The harsh yellow overhead light of your bedroom had given you a headache well over two of those hours ago, and you had been focused on your work for approximately none of them. Your mind was, as it had been for the last week, totally preoccupied with your date with Mike.

“Yeah?” you call out, closing your eyes and feeling instant relief from the abuse of your bedroom lighting.

Your roommate calls through the door, “You still jerking off in there?”

You drop your head onto your desk. “You walked in without knocking! Don’t paint me to be the villain here!” You hear her cackling, and pound your head onto the desk a few more times in a feeble attempt to knock yourself unconscious. “Come in, you fucking terror.”

Honestly, your roommate had a right to be concerned. She’d been barging in for the entire year-and-a-half you lived together, and the _one time_ you’d forgotten to lock the door while performing _extracurricular activities_ was the _last_ time you’d forget to lock the door during them.

You had, in the past week since yours and Mike’s date, gone to pound town on yourself more than you had since you’d learned what a clitoris was for. That, combined with your absolute inability to stop thinking about said lanky filmmaker had you the slightest bit scatter-brained. Whenever you heard someone engaging in a snorting laugh while you were at work, whenever you watched Star Trek, whenever you passed by a movie about ghosts while scrolling through channels, you thought of Mike. For fuck’s sake, you drove past a graveyard the other day and started blushing so hard that the woman in the McDonald’s drive-through you’d entered _ten minutes later_ asked if you had a fever.

I mean, you were only human.

Instead of beginning the miserable process of waiting by the phone for Mike, you decided the day after your date that you would ask him if he wanted a follow-up. He was surprised you’d called so early, but he sounded pretty happy about it as well (at least, you think he did). It was decided that he would come over with a surprise movie, and you would teach him how to make parmesan heroes (a recipe which conveniently takes at least two hours to prepare for).

Your roommate strode into your room, breaking you from your thoughts. 

“Alright, kid, I got all the shit on your shopping list,” she said, sitting on the edge of your desk. “But, there’s one thing you forgot, which is the most important ingredient for your dinner.” She reached into her bag, looked into your eyes, and dropped no less than thirty condoms onto your desk. You looked at them. You felt like they looked back. 

“Buddy?” you asked.

“Yeah?” she responded.

You threw a handful of them into her face. “Why the _fuck_ are you like this?”

She batted her hand to block them, scattering them about the floor. “I’m just trying to be supportive! Plus I don’t want his splooge on the counter where I _eat_ my fucking _meals._ ” Her smile was playful, and evil. “Well, I’m getting ready to head out. Gonna visit my parents so you can have a slutty weekend with Movie Man. He can show you his _tripod_ —”

You plugged your ears and started singing to block her out, until she yanked your arm from your head. “Hey, isn’t he supposed to be here soon? Like, an hour?”

 _No fucking_ way, you thought. Immediately dropping your hands, you turned to the clock on the other side of the room, seeing that you had at least three hours. By the time you turned around to yell at your roommate, she had already scattered to your door, blowing you a kiss as she exited and slamming the door behind her.

Well, it was probably a good idea for you to start getting ready at the very least. It would give you plenty of time to freak out in front of the front door. You stood from your desk and made your way to the bathroom.

~

“So,” Mike said as he strolled into your kitchen with you three hours later, “I find it risky to bring movies that I think are good to a date.” ( _date date he said date_ ) He set the grocery bag of beer on the kitchen island and fished two DVDs out of his jeans pocket. “In an effort to avoid either of us absolutely _hating_ each other by the end of the night, I just brought two of the biggest piles of shit I know.” He laid them on the counter like playing cards: _The Room_ and _Troll 2_.

You (subtly) slid into his personal space to examine them, whispering “Oh my gooood,” quietly. Mike’s hand casually found your hip, and you hid your smile with your hair. “I’ve seen _Troll 2_ more times than I’ve seen several distant relatives.” You tapped a finger on the case for _The Room._ “I have heard terrible, horrible things about this, but have yet to see it.”

Mike snatched it up quickly. “It’s good to know that I won’t be the shittiest thing you look at tonight.” He turned around and frisbeed it onto your couch.

“Oh, I already knew that. I’m gonna witness your cooking, after all.”

“ _Wooooah!_ ” He threw his hands up. “Sick _burn!_ ”

You started snorting and pushed him into the counter by the fridge before reaching into it to pull out the eggplant and garlic. “Go fuck yourself.”

Mike strode up to you, prepared to help. “That’s the plan.” He peeked into one of the grocery bags you had sitting on the island, grabbing out cans of tomatoes and an onion. “Come here, ruin your kitchen, torture your eyes with Tommy Wiseau, disappoint you sexually, go home, masturbate, cry myself to sleep.”

“Hey,” you said in a soft voice. You grabbed his arm and said, “I’m sure you won’t _ruin_ my kitchen.”

Mike let out a goofy chuckle and hip-checked you.

You told him how thin to slice the eggplant, and went to the fridge to gather the rest of the supplies for the red sauce. Once you had the eggplant sweating, you started on the sauce. You weren’t very used to talking people through cooking something, but Mike was surprisingly receptive to instruction. It was playful, with you seeing how many slices of onion you could put in the hood of his jacket before he noticed (twenty-seven), and him making snide little comments and jokes (“What the fuck. You keep your butter out of the fridge?” “Yes, asshole, it makes it easier to spread. Don’t you want to spread butter without fucking up the bread?” “I would rather the bacteria grow to the size of OJ Simpson and gangbang me than leave my butter at room temperature, you sick fuck.”)

Once the sauce was set to simmer for the next hour-and-a-half, you and Mike went to the couch to start _The Room_.

“I’ll be honest,” he says as he sits beside you, taking the DVD player remote from your hands, “this movie has some of the most raw sensuality I personally have ever seen.” He set his arm along the back of the couch, stroking his fingertips across your shoulder. “It’ll take a lot of strength on your part to resist jumping my bones.”

You rolled your eyes at him while cuddling up to his side (it wasn’t contradictory, you _swear_ ). Honestly, with how hard you wanted to bone Mike, you wouldn’t be surprised if a sex scene in a movie is what broke the camel’s back and made you ride him like you stole him.

Then the movie started, and you were pretty sure you’d never be aroused again.

It was, truly, a miserable experience. Regardless, your ribs hurt from laughing and you’d heard Mike make this adorable little wheeze-laugh that you hadn’t heard before, which brought you back to the road of arousal-recovery. 

Afterward, you brought him back to the kitchen to begin the process of frying the eggplant, and this bout of cooking was even better. Neither of you were tense with fear that you’d fuck the date up, and you both seemed to be happy that you were with someone you could playfully insult without worry of truly offending them. 

Not to mention all the casual touches Mike kept giving you. You felt every one like a brand.

Finally, you two had crafted one damn-fine parm hero, if you did say so yourself. Mike wasn’t nearly as terrible in the kitchen as he gave himself credit for, and this dish was a lot easier with help from someone.

Seeing as your place wasn’t equipped with an actual dining table, most of your meals were taken on high chairs placed next to the kitchen island. This is where you pointed Mike to set down your plates.

He did so, and he helped you plate the food. While you hunted down the napkins you had hidden somewhere in the kitchen, Mike reached into the fridge for the beers he brought, placing one down for each of you before climbing into his chair. His eyes followed as you threw the remaining dishes in the sink, and he slung one arm across the back of your chair. He took a swallow of his beer, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob, feeling a little thirsty yourself. Having caught you staring, he sent you a wink before placing his beer back on the counter.

You joined him, ignoring your slight blush, and started eating.

Mike dug into it with gusto, and you did the same, possibly startling him with how ravenously you ate the sandwich. Considering the look in his eye, he actually seemed more appreciative than anything. You sucked some sauce off your thumb and winked at him, seeing that side-smile of his before he went back to eating.

Once you two had slowed down, you went back to your easy back-and-forth. He told you how he got into film-making, you told him how you got into linguistics. He told you about Rich Evans, you told him about your roommate. It was horrifically pleasant.

“Y’know,” Mike said, leaning back in his chair with a beer and an empty plate in front of him, “I lied about not being able to cook.”

Your eyebrows raised. “Why’s that?” You polished off your own beer. 

He shook his head mournfully and tossed his beer bottle in the trash-can. “I was hoping that, in your instruction, you’d slide up behind me like in Ghost and we’d fuck covered in tomato sauce.”

You faked a gasp. “Mike! I save Swayze references for the third date!”

He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, and he fake-punched you in the shoulder. Before you could fake punch him back, his hand wrapped in the fabric of your shirt and he pulled you close to him. Your stomach erupted in butterflies. “Damn, cause I’ve had the Time of my Life.”

You started giggling, and Mike’s smile showed his teeth, and you had to fucking _kiss him._

Fortunately, Mike didn’t make you wait, and he turned to face your chair and gave you a kiss that justified all of the masturbating you’d been doing the past week. Honestly, it started pretty tame, and the fist in your shirt released to slide down your back. His other hand rested on your knee and you grabbed his forearm, tilting your head to gain better access.

You hummed into the kiss, feeling full and warm and kinda horny, what with the way Mike starts rubbing his thumb along the inside of your knee (as well as your inability to _not_ be horny when Mike was on your mind). When his tongue slipped into your mouth, you tasted tomato sauce and smiled against his lips. Mike felt your smile, and one of his own grew; your kiss had become just two smiles connected at the lips, and you opened your eyes, feeling giddy, to find him already looking at you.

Then, Mike’s foot left the rest on his seat and replaced itself on yours. “Enough of that soft shit,” he mumbled into your lips, before moving both hands below your upper thighs and hauling you into his lap, startling a gasp out of you. Your foreheads bumped together, but you hardly noticed when he slid his hands to the back of your knees and pulled you forward until you had your thighs squeezed tight around his hips.

You leaned back a little. “Well, that was impressive.”

“Yeah, don’t get used to it,” he said, letting his hands rest on the small of your back and closing the distance between you again to nip at your bottom lip with those _teeth_ which you were inexplicable crazy about.

Reaching one hand behind you to brace yourself on the edge of the island, you moved the other one to his hair to tug at the strands of fading green. Keeping your mouth on his, you mutter, “I’ll be sure to anticipate only disappointment from now on.”

Mike ran his nose across your jaw to your ear, whispering, “Fuck yeah, sweet talk me,” before sucking your earlobe into his mouth. You started a laugh, but it quickly broke into a moan under the gentle suction. Tightening your grip in his hair, you pulled him back to kiss you again. He went easily, eager to return his tongue to your mouth.

Kissing Mike was quickly becoming your favorite pastime; he flicked his tongue in and out, and you chased it fruitlessly. He chuckled at your clearly mounting desperation and, resisting the urge to whine, you retaliated by starting a slow grind of your hips into his. His laughter cut off, and he _finally_ put his tongue to work.

One of his hands moved from your knee to your hip bone, grazing his nails up your thigh the whole way before gripping hard and guiding the rolls of your hips to his specification. Even through both of your jeans, you were able to feel his growing erection, and you let out a little groan of satisfaction at you having this effect on him.

Immersing yourself in the kiss again, you dropped your hand from his hair and moved it behind yourself to rest above his knee, quickly bringing your other hand to mirror it. The change in position made a new angle between your hips which would have been _perfect_ if not for the uncomfortable seam of your jeans. Mike was also a fan of the new angle it seemed, for he let out a quiet groan in the kiss, letting both hands frame your hips now. He wasn’t guiding them anymore so much as he was just holding on for the ride, only applying pressure every now and again to grind you harder onto his dick. You let out a sigh of contentment, and let your head roll back and separate the kiss. You tried to catch your breath, a task made much harder with the way that Mike _immediately_ relocated his lips to your neck. 

He suckled lightly on your neck before instantly contrasting the gentleness with a hard bite, forcing an embarrassingly high whimper out of you. Even when you (frequently) touched yourself after considering this kind of contact with Mike, you hadn’t imagined just how heady this would feel. You shocked yourself with just how much you wanted him in that moment, but psyched yourself out of propositioning him directly, not wanting to seem too eager.

Turns out, you needn’t have worried.

Mike pulled from your neck suddenly, but he pressed a smile into the side of your head when you grumbled in protest. He reached behind you, and you heard his plate being relocated to the other half of the island. “Lay back,” he quietly commanded, and you nodded before carefully leaning your back into the counter. Mike then returned his hand to your other hip before he used his grip to place you all the way onto the counter.

You shivered at the cold of the countertop. He stopped touching you then, and you were confused for a moment before you heard him ask, in a cartoony voice, “Hey, Lady, do you mind?” You leaned up to look at him, opening your eyes (when had you closed them?) and raising your eyebrows.

“Mind what?”

Rather than respond, Mike scooted his chair back a touch before leaning in and swiping his tongue over the center seam of your jeans.

A shiver coursed down your spine. “Uh, fuck _no,_ I don’t mind.”

He smirked, keeping his eyes on yours as he sunk his teeth into your thigh and started unfastening your jeans. 

You (not at all) gently dropped your head back onto the counter. _This is happening. Mike is about to eat me out on my cold off-brand Formica kitchen counter._ You would’ve pinched yourself, but Mike’s sharp biting worked just as well. Fuck, your roommate wins this round. With a gentle push, he urged you into lifting your hips off the counter so he could divest you of your jeans, leaving your underwear in place.

Mike relocated his arms under your legs and wrapped them around, laying his hands on the top of your thighs and barely tracing shaped upon them with the tips of his fingers. He cleared his throat. “Actually,” he said, and his voice seemed to be the slightest bit huskier, “I change my mind about earlier. You should definitely prepare yourself to be impressed.” 

Your hips rocked towards him a little mindlessly at that, and Mike met them halfway, grazing his nose on the skin right outside of the coverage of your underwear. He had this _uncanny_ ability to make such a douchey phrase sound more like a promise than a baseless boast, and you, for one, were willing to test his statement. In the name of science.

“Well,” you started, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. _“Do it,”_ you urged in your simultaneously best and worse Palpatine voice.

Mike groaned and rolled his eyes so hard that it _must_ have hurt, then he used the thumb of his left hand to pull your underwear to the side and seal his lips around your clit.

You squeaked out an “Oh!” of shock before dropping back onto the countertop, letting your eyes close again. You felt Mike separate his mouth from your clit with a sharp _suck_ before he breathed out a laugh against your wet folds. He used the thumb not holding your underwear to replace his mouth, making soft, barely-there circles which made your hips twitch. He stretched your underwear over the curve of your ass to free his hand, then used that hand to spread your lips apart. You felt his breath against your hole, and you shuddered.

Mike’s second thumb slid to the inside of your labia before dragging up to join its twin in the assault on your clit. Barely containing another embarrassing noise, you tried to stop your hips from jerking so hard. This was, of course, to no avail, for Mike seemed to be using the frantic movement of your hips instead of any actual movement on his part, essentially letting you retroactively grind your clit against his thumbs.

 _Smug asshole,_ you thought, trying to project it into his brain.

With a huff of annoyance at his fucking _teasing_ you arched your back enough to yank your shirt off. You could practically _feel_ Mike’s eyes zero in on your lack of a bra, on your nipples which had hardened from his handiwork, on your fingers which eased from your collarbones to your tits. You jiggled them a little for show before taking your nipples in hand, hearing a little hum from Mike, who still _wasn’t fucking doing anything._

You decided that you would take matters into your own hands (or, into your own hips), by resting your knees on either side of his (pretty, long) neck, only briefly considering strangling him to death. Using his shoulders to brace yourself, as well as having effectively trapped his hands between your thighs, you started gyrating against his thumbs, earning a little moan from yourself now that you _finally_ had some friction.

You looked down between your hands on your nipples and your thighs, your eyes landed on Mike’s face. His eyes were staring at your undulating hips with an expression akin to rapture; his mouth had dropped open slightly, his pupils were blown, and you felt every one of his accelerated exhales on the wetness that had spread onto your thighs (though you _refused_ to admit you had gotten so wet from him teasing you so infuriatingly). Mike’s eyes found yours, then, and his open mouth reformed into a lecherous smirk.

_Oh boy._

Mike removed his hands from your pelvis and hooked his thumbs under the bend of your knees again before gripping them with mouthwatering firmness and shoving them damn-near your shoulders. He held them there for a moment, then told you firmly: “Pull your panties down.” That _one_ command had the arousal in your low stomach spreading all the way up your chest, and you quickly released your tits and grabbed the waistband of your underwear, ready to pull them all the way off. Mike stopped you when they had made it to your knees, though. This close to your face, you could see how wet they were, and if you hadn’t already been flushed from the half-handjob, you surely would’ve been from that visual.

Before he broke eye-contact, he said, in that hormone-deepened voice: “I’m about to execute order sixty-nine.” With that, he finally, _finally_ dropped his head down to drag his tongue from your hole to the tip of your clit.

You resisted the urge to thank him (also the urge to kick him for that fucking joke), and instead let your legs relax against your chest and your head against the counter, humming happily. Mike’s tongue flicked against your clit with the same almost-pressure, and for a moment you worried that he was gonna start that torturous teasing again, but then he gave a drawn-out lick with the flat of his tongue and ducked back down to give attention to your hole. You let out quiet gasps as his tongue swirled around your entrance, gliding easily through your slick. After one more circle around, he eased it inside you and your hips jumped in an attempt to get him deeper. You then realized just how _long_ his tongue is, as he slowly flexed and nudged it against the walls of your pussy in direct contrast to the earlier movement against your clit.

The cool countertop was quickly warming against your heated skin. Mike’s sweating palms had eased their iron-like grip on the backs of your thighs, and one was slowly making its way towards your ass, one of yours quickly coming to replace it. His other hand reached for your panties where they were stretched between your thighs, and he grabbed them, wrapped them around his fist once, and used them as a handle to keep your legs to your chest.

_God damn._

Mike’s hand at your ass covered a wide area, and he used his thumb to spread your pussy open wider, fucking his tongue in you faster now. The closer proximity of his face to your center had his nose grinding against your clit in such a way that your back was arching off the kitchen island. Your legs squeezed around his hand and he moaned, and _you_ moaned, and the hand squeezing your ass abandoned its position to quickly and efficiently spear two fingers into you while Mike’s tongue drove up to your friction-puffy clit.

Your moan was almost continuous; Mike was tracing unidentified shapes into your clit while his fingers slowly fucked you, but with enough force that his palm clapped against your asscheeks with every thrust. The wave of arousal inside of you had grown without you even being aware of it, and your free arm broke from its paralysis to hold tight to the back of his head. You could fucking _hear_ how wet you were in the squelch of his fingers. Mike’s teeth scraped against your clit, your hand tightened in his hair, and he moaned into your pussy, and the wave crashed.

“Holy fucking _shit,_ goddamn,” you babbled as your body shook with your orgasm. Mike’s fingers had stopped their thrusting, but they rubbed insistently at the most sensitive part of your pussy, and your babbling crumbled into just a drawn-out whine.

When you had stopped panting, you stared at the ceiling and asked in a breathless voice, “You kiss your fucking mother with that mouth?” You were still trembling minutely.

Mike slowly eased his fingers from you, though you still winced from the absence. He detached his wet face from your labia, and licked his lips, saying, “No. Why? Do you think I should?”

Grunting, you used your arms to push yourself into a seated position, feeling a new bolt of arousal at how sore he had made you so quickly. “For her sake,” you started, “probably.”

Mike’s nose wrinkled in disgust, but his smile broke wide and he laughed. You laughed with him, high from your orgasm, and grabbed his face, quickly sealing your lips together. Mike pulled you back into his lap from the counter, and you could feel his erection against your ass through his khaki shorts. You leaned back, and started licking your slick from his face. You felt his cock jerk beneath you.

You faked a gasp, then said, in a false-sympathetic voice, “Oh no, I’ve gotten your shorts all wet!” You slowly ground your still-wet pussy on his lap. “We simply must get you out of them!”

Mike’s thumbs dug into your hips again. “Whatever you say, _mommy,”_ he said, then laughed boisterously as you gagged and whacked him upside the head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4give me if it seems like i rushed to the porn. it only seems like that because i rushed to the porn.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SRY ABOUT THE BLUE BALLS FOLKS

You had your chin propped upon Mike's sternum, which was still over-warm and a little damp with sweat. His hand remained in your hair, his fist closed, but slack. While you waited for your breathing to even out, Mike's hand started moving again, scratching short-trimmed nails along your scalp and earning a content hum from you. 

After rotating your head to face his, you nipped his fingertips. "How you holding up?" you ask.

Mike let out a low whistle. "I think I'll survive. Cardiac arrest is still a distinct possibility, though." His voice still had that sex-deep quality, and you made yourself resist the desire to straddle him again.

You nodded as well as you could with your head pressed against Mike's skin. "I see." You closed your eyes, sighing. "I'll bury your body in the backyard, then."

"I accept these conditions. As long as my ghost can watch you shower."

You tried, and failed, to hold back a smile. "Your last rights include a living shower with me, if you're ready to receive them." Truly, you did need a shower. Most of you was far moister than average.

Unintentionally yanking the skin of your cheek, Mike slid out from under you, standing beside the bed. "Well, I guess I already had my _last meal_ ," he said, accompanied by a type of eyebrow-dance-routine.

"Boo," you responded, reaching for a pillow to whack him with. He grabbed it from your hand, then reached the other out to help you from the bed. With a smile, you grabbed his hand and got to your knees to step from your bed. You were interrupted by Mike pulling on your arm, ducking under you, and then pulling you over his shoulder. You squawked as your breath was forced from you. The shoulder under you jolted as Mike turned towards your en suite, and you reached down to slap his ass. He let out a high-pitched laugh, and you allowed yourself to go rag-doll on him.

A gasp was shocked out of you when your bare ass made contact with the cold bathroom counter. After making sure you were seated, Mike honked your nose and turned to your shower. While you entertained yourself staring at _his_ ass, Mike took his sweet time decoding the schematics of your shower. You decided to take pity on him and hopped off the counter (scrunching your nose at the weird zappy-landing-foot-feeling) to show him how to work the handle. Mike looked at you, fanned his face like a flustered debutante, and stepped into the spray. You followed after him, smiling at his satisfied sigh.

Due to your significant height difference, you were able to stand in front of him to share the water without blocking him. You tied you hair up out of the way before reaching for your bar of soap on one of the shelves beside Mike. When you grabbed it, though, Mike grunted, eyebrows furrowed, and took the soap from your hand. He lathered up his hands and started washing your shoulders.

_Oh god,_ you thought as his hands slid down your back, _here come the effects of touch starvation._ When his nails gently began circling the soap across your skin, you shuddered and compressed fully against his chest. His lips pressed against your temple, and they felt like he was smiling. 

_Who the hell is this tender bastard?_ you asked yourself. Based on the way Mike fake-gasped and gently bumped his head into yours, though, you had apparently said it out loud. "I'm multi-faceted, jackass." You realized it was the first thing he'd said in several minutes, and you felt bad for breaking the comfortable silence. Mike didn't seem to mind, though, when he put his sudsy hand to your cheek and guided you into a kiss. You sure weren't gonna complain about that, and you happily joined him in the kiss. You realized that, at some point during the night, you'd gotten stubble burn from him on your chin, and the pleasant scratch from the kiss made you smile. He licked his way into your mouth, but maintained the slow rhythm that lulled you into a sleepy sort of relaxation.

He broke the kiss, and his hands resumed their soaping, moving to your stomach. You soaped up your hands to give him the same treatment, pausing when he grabbed two handfuls of your tits. He raised an eyebrow, giving you that half-smile you adored.

"Give my poor snatch at least thirty minutes, you wild animal," you murmured him as you ran your hands across the surprisingly thick hair on his chest. _Hmm,_ you thought, _maybe twenty._ He huffed out a laugh, rinsing his hands off and arching into any direction your hand led.

Once you'd finished giving him a cursory wash, you just looked at him. He'd closed his eyes, and his head was leaning ever-so-slightly to the side. After rinsing them, his hands had found his way to your hips. His thumbs steadily rubbed circles into your skin, and he smiled faintly, opening one eye to peer at you. For some reason, that more than anything had your stomach erupting with flutters.

Before you could stop yourself, you asked him, "jIH date vIvut SoH?"

Mike's other eye opened, and his eyebrows furrowed. With an excited voice, he asked, "Was that klingon?"

You nodded, thankful for the steam to blame your flush on.

A huge smile broke out onto his face, showing those fucking _teeth_ again. "What did you say?"

You shook your head, and Mike dug his fingers into your side. 

"I swear to _fuck_ I will make you regret not telling me." His fingertips poised over your ribs, ready to strike.

"Fine! Fuck!" You swatted his hands away and covered your ribs. "I'll tell you if you watch one more movie with me."

Mike crossed his arms, mirroring your pose. "I do still have _Troll 2._ "

You both playfully glared for a moment. "Hmm," you began. "Make it _Roadhouse_ , and I think we have a deal."

His eyes narrowed. "Plus," you added, "seeing Swayze increases my chances of granting you a round two."

After a moment, Mike stuck his hand out for you to shake. Your hand met his, and you shook on it. Then, Mike used his other hand to reach behind you and crank the water all the way to cold before he leapt from the shower, laughing at your squeal. You stuck your head out, spit a mouthful of water at him, and returned to the water as he cried, "You fucker!"

You turned the water off before stepping out and grabbing a towel off the rack. Turning around, you saw Mike with a towel wrapped around his waist, and admired him for a moment. When he caught you staring, he fake-gasped again, covering his hands with his nipples. "You cad!" he shouted in a feminine voice.

_Oh, I'm gonna wife the shit out of this idiot._ You stepped into his space, and smiled when he wound his arms around your waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Would you like to date me?" <\-- KLINGON
> 
> ,,ALSO,, I may add more t this at a later date, but generally, c'est fini
> 
> THAKN YOU FOR READING MY MIKE LOVE, I'D DIE FOR YA


End file.
